Common People
by nottonyharrison
Summary: They were both sick of Wizarding London, but is their contractor and client relationship a mere coincidence, or something more nefarious?


**A/N: **Written for the 2012 FQF at Granger enchanted. Original prompt: Hermione is getting some work done at her home. The contractor is someone she didn't expect to see again. Sparks fly when he sorts out her plumbing. Pairings : Seamus Finnigan, Neville Longbottom, Terry Boot, Lee Jordan, Oliver Wood. Kinks : Classic plumber/housewife blue movie scene

There is an element of the _classic blue movie_ in here, but that's not where the smut is, I am terribly sorry about that! Thanks so much to my beta CurseWeaver, who did a great job at the last minute. Also massive thanks to my wonderful cheerleader Mistress Malfoy, who pandered to my insecurities for the entire three weeks it took me to write this. Love you both 3

**Disclaimer: **All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author of this story. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any previously copyrighted material. No copyright infringement is intended.

**...**

It wasn't a particularly ostentatious house, by any means. It was red brick with white wooden windows and crawling ivy, almost modest in its outward appearance. It was two stories tall and almost identical to all the other houses on the average middle class street. Even so, it was perfect.

Except for the basement. The basement needed some serious work.

Crumbling brick, the beginnings of dry rot, and a skin crawlingly creepy damp area under the stairs meant the sole occupant rarely ventured down into the depths of the cavernous space, instead choosing to work on her experiments in the kitchen. There were, however, a few problems with her choice of workspace.

First, it wasn't very often that if she wanted to actually _cook_ something, that there was an actual space available on the counter or the stove to prepare anything remotely nutritious.

Second, well... if she were honest, she wouldn't really want to be preparing food in a room that had seen more explosions than Seamus Finnegan's first year desks. Goodness knew what lingering unhealthy ingredients would make their way into her food. It was a recipe for disaster, quite literally. Also, despite her normally incredibly organized and pedantic nature, she had developed a rather bad habit of using her pots and pans for ingredient preparation.

There was no denying it; it was time for the basement to have a makeover. And while Hermione Granger would have usually chosen to have the work completed as efficiently as possible, magical contractors were out of the question nowadays.

Sometimes she found herself cursing her involvement with Harry, angered the notoriety that being one third of the so called _Golden Trio, _a name that she disliked intensely, had severely impacted her ability to lead her quiet life of introversion. Other times, she was thrilled with the strange turn of events that were directly related to her role in the war.

She had only been in the workforce for a few months when she had come to the conclusion that the Wizarding World was never going to move forward into the twenty-first century. It was December 1999, the cusp of the new millennium when she finally snapped.

She had been, not entirely unexpectedly, recruited into the Ministry of Magic straight after completing her schooling, having returned to Hogwarts to attain her N.E.W.T.s. What _had_ been unexpected however, was the prestigious and improbably high level position she had been offered. The newly created _Office for Muggleborn Liaison_ had an important role to fill in the Wizarding World, helping to integrate Muggleborn witches and wizards at a much earlier age into the community, informing families in a more tactful and gentle manner of the nature of their children's abilities, and educating the population as a whole about equality and tolerance.

On the surface, it had looked like the role of a lifetime, and as she had expected, it was entirely too good to be true. Mere hours into her first day on the job, straight out of school and green as a granny smith, the reality of the position was confirmed. A press release had been shoved in front of her face, and she was pushed towards a podium, flashing bulbs and quick quotes quills filling the room before her.

The speech was dull, uninspired, and a little bit racist. She read every word, the shock of the sudden exposure and lack of preparation not quite settling in until hours after the press conference had concluded. She went home that night and opened a bottle of firewhisky that she had stashed in the back of one the kitchen cabinets of her new flat, drinking half the bottle before her eyes started drooping and she stumbled into bed, clothes and all.

Her second day on the job was worse than the first. Sporting a hangover and a bad attitude, she had first been ogled by most every wizard on her floor as she walked briskly to her office, and shortly afterward had her bottom pinched by a man three times her age and four times her size. His reaction to her stinging hex had been less than impressed, and he had made a vulgar comment about how she shouldn't have her bottom on display if she didn't want it to attract attention.

Her bewilderment at the conservative grey slacks being construed as _having her bottom on display_ wasn't the worst of it, however. It was the decided lack of paperwork on her desk.

The conversation with the Minister had been... interesting. He voiced his assumption that she was aware of her status as a figurehead, she fumed at the lack of communication and the direct contradiction to the job description that had been laid out in the contract. He pointed out a loophole in the contract, she ranted about the antiquated way the ministry treated women.

He told her to shut the hell up and be happy with the ludicrous salary she had been offered, she asked if it was their way of shutting her up about the reality of the significant part the Ministry had played, early on in the second rise of Voldemort.

He just looked at her and raised an eyebrow. She slammed the office door on her way out, the respect she had once felt for Kingsley Shacklebolt well and truly gone.

The next few months were depressing. On the upside, she was able to catch up with her reading. On the downside, she was forced to appear in front of adoring witches and wizards on an almost daily basis, spewing Ministry propaganda and kissing babies. The desperation to leave clawed at her every moment she let her mind rest, the books helping to quell the bad thoughts, but the depression still crept up, sneaking in and taking over her mind slowly and insidiously.

It was the Christmas bonus that had finally tipped her over the edge. It had been even more ridiculous than she had expected, and the dark monster that had been torturing her mind finally began retreating, the knowledge that she had reached her goal a welcome respite. She handed in her notice on Christmas Eve, and that evening packed up her flat in Magical London and moved back in with her parents.

It wasn't until four years later that she had purchased the house in Edinburgh, her Muggle investments paying off well, the sizeable fortune she had accumulated in the time since Voldemort's defeat having grown to a point where she would never have to work again.

And so she had thrown herself into her first love – research. The house had been turned into a veritable laboratory, potions ingredients, beakers, and cauldrons littering every spare surface of the downstairs area. Scorch marks and various magical enchantments lingered on many walls, the products of charms and experiments going wrong, a proud reminder of her progress, badges of achievement and brushes with death.

And although she was entirely comfortable with her status as the street's slightly eccentric and reclusive young woman, she was beginning to crave human interaction outside of the occasional visit to the pub with the neighbours. Human interaction, she acknowledged, often required inviting people into her home, and in the state it was in, this was not going to be happening any time soon.

And so the basement renovation was born. A Muggle contractor was hired - the last thing she needed was a magical person poking around in her business – and plans were drawn up for the cavernous space to be turned into a modern, bright and well equipped lab.

It was early on a Monday morning in September 2006 when she opened the door to an eerily familiar face, and promptly slammed it shut again.

"Granger... Granger open the door." The man huffed and banged on the brightly painted door, not bothering to use the ostentatious lions head doorknocker. "Granger!"

"Piss off." The reply was a little muffled through the solid wood and he groaned, rolling his head on his shoulders and banging one final time, hard enough to hurt his fist.

"Please open the door." His voice was back at a normal level of decibels.

"No."

Pressing his wand to her lock, he briefly considered using _Alohomora_ and then mentally slapped himself. He was outside the door of Hermione Granger, genius extraordinaire. There was no way a simple unlocking charm would work here.

"Please, I'm not here to bug you."

The door opened a crack and the side of a scruffy head of almost curls inched around the edge of the door. "If you're not here to snoop or bother, then what are you here for?"

"I'm your plumber."

There was silence for a full ten seconds before she spoke. "I'm sorry, you're my what?"

"Plumber."

"Excuse me if I don't believe you... you're my _what?_"

He held up a toolbox and gestured behind him to the van parked in her driveway, bright red with yellow lettering proclaiming _Wood Plumbers_ on the side. "You can trust me; it's not some elaborate plot to get you back into the public eye."

She looked at him sceptically for a few long moments, seemingly debating with herself, until she eventually opened the door wider and gestured for him to enter. He stepped over the threshold and into the foyer, stopping a few yards into the rather large space and turning. They stared at each other for a few moments before she spoke.

"What the fuck are you doing being a _plumber?_"

"I like working with my hands?" He raised his eyebrows and gave her his most innocent expression.

She scratched the side of her head, mussing the already chaotic hairdo even more, and sighed. "Well this is rather unexpected."

He held up a newspaper clipping and smiled cheekily. "I came prepared in case you didn't believe me."

Snatching the paper from his hand she read the article from the Daily Prophet, realization crossing her features after a few seconds. "So... washed up, did you? Shame, you looked rather nice in that uniform." He waggled his eyebrows at her and she grimaced. "Don't flatter yourself, Wood. Everyone knows they have extra padding."

"I will have you know that mine _never_ had extra padding. Too restrictive."

She rolled her eyes and pushed past him. "Yeah, yeah. Whatever. Basement's down here."

He trailed after her, glancing around the deceptively modern house. On the outside it looked like a classic Edwardian villa, all red brick and rather cliché trails of deep green ivy. On the inside, it was modern and bright, stark white walls and open spaces.

"Nice place you've got here."

She shrugged. "Touch a wall."

He trailed his hand along the apparently smooth satin finish wall and raised his eyebrows at the rough texture. Pulling his hand away he looked at his fingers, which came away covered in soot. "Perception filters?"

She grunted a response and opened a pair of frosted glass doors and glanced back at him. "You don't want to see what it looks like when I'm not expecting guests."

"I always thought you would be the meticulously neat housekeeper type."

"I always thought you were a progressive thinker and didn't make stereotypical misogynistic assumptions."

"Ouch, Granger. That hurts." He frowned and followed her across the small landing and down the wide flight of stairs to the darkness of the basement. She flicked her wand and a harsh white glow filled the room, illuminating the large and gloomy space.

"The builder told me you would be showing up last week, we've been waiting on you to get the installation done before he can put the wall linings up."

"Yeah, Murray overbooked me. Sorry 'bout that." He grimaced and rubbed the back of his neck, setting his toolbox down. "So, you have the plans?"

Hermione gestured to a workbench in the middle of the room. "On there. You okay if I leave you to it?"

He nodded. "Yeah... yeah fine."

She turned and began climbing back up the stairs, hesitating half way up and turning back. "Oliver?"

He moved his eyes quickly from her bottom to her face, eyebrows raised. "Mmm-hmm?"

"It's good to see you again."

Crookshanks twined himself around her legs as she stood at the kitchen table, stirring a large cauldron of bright purple liquid. She looked down and nudged him with her foot, not thoughts momentarily interrupted.

"Whaddaya think Crooks? Is he snooping, or is he really a plumber?" Crookshanks looked up at her and meowed. "Yeah, you're probably right. Not exactly the spy type, is he?"

Hermione chuckled to herself and briefly thought of ways in which the Ministry could use a washed up Quidditch player with an enormous ego and even more enormous biceps.

"Hey, do you have a copy of the exterior plans?"

She looked up from the now muddy green contents of the cauldron in surprise. "Yeah, just over there." She waved her free hand towards the front door. "See that console table? It's on there somewhere."

"Right-o then." He turned and headed for the entrance, hesitating when she called out.

"Oliver?"

"Mmm?"

"Why are you a plumber?"

"Gee, Granger. Don't beat around the bush." He was sifting through the sheets of paper on the table absently, not really paying attention to the contents.

"No seriously. It's bugging me."

He turned and scratched his head, eyes fixed on a crack in the floorboards... Frowning, he sighed and looked up, eyes locking with hers. "What we saw... back then..." He trailed off, words failing him.

Hermione opened her mouth to reassure him, but thought better of it, instead turning her focus back to the cauldron. "How many did you..."

"Just the two." He turned back to the papers and found the one he was after. Clutching it in his hand he looked blankly at the wall for a moment. "It's not the killing that bothers me, that was necessary... it was the cruelty, the evil I saw there. That evil is something you can't get rid of without progress. I can't_win _at fixing the Wizarding World."

Hermione nodded. "When did you leave?"

"Couple of years ago." He faced her again, fiddling with the edge of the large sheet of paper that held the exterior plans. "I had a bit of a drinking problem, Puddlemere kicked me out."

Hermione snorted. "You? Mister _win at all costs?_ A drinking problem?"

"Shit happens; people grow, sometimes not in the best way."

She snorted and reached for a jar of beetle legs. "Don't I know it."

He was silent for a moment before replying. "How about you?"

"What about me?"

He gestured widely, taking in the chaos that was obviously now beginning to appear to him, perception filter failing as he became more and more aware of his surroundings. "Why do you choose to live this life of seclusion?"

She frowned. "I... go out sometimes."

"Who with?"

"I have Muggle friends."

He nodded and smirked. Turning, he stepped towards the front door, hesitating for a moment before pulling it open, casually sauntering outside without another word.

Hermione looked down at Crookshanks once again, his squashed face turned up towards her, tongue darting out from between his furry lips.

"So, not a spy then?" Crookshanks meowed and Hermione smiled. "Yeah, I don't think so either."

It was his third day in the house when it happened. An almighty metallic clanging came from the front yard, followed by a loud gushing noise and a shout of surprise. Hermione leaned back in her chair, contemplating going outside to check on the origin of the racket, but instead turned back to the Arithmancy book she had been reading.

"Granger!"

The shout came a few seconds later and she set the book down, looking up and towards the kitchen window. "WHAT?"

"Can you come here for a sec?"

She huffed and scraped her chair back, stomping towards the front door. The sight that met her as she opened it caused her eyes to widen, and an involuntary giggle to bubble up and escape her lips.

"It's not funny."

"Oh, I think it is."

His frown was barely visible under the coating of bright orange covering him from head to toe, and he spat some of the liquid out of his mouth. "Not funny."

She stepped forward and thumped heavily down the concrete steps that led off the small porch, striding towards him purposefully. He stood next to a small hole, filled with rusty water that had spilled onto the white and grey shells, staining a large portion of the front yard, unimpressed look on his face and arms attempting to shake off the excess water.

"Are you or are you not a wizard, Wood?"

"I was never very good at cleaning charms."

"And you think I _am?_ There's a reason I use a perception filter in there, you know." She waved her hand towards the house and looked at him incredulously.

"I thought you were supposed to be _the brightest witch of your age!_'

"Doesn't mean I'm any good at cleaning charms though, does it?"

After a few moments of staring each other down, she turned and stomped off, heading for the narrow alley that ran between her house and the fence separating her property from the neighbour, heading for the large reel that nearly sprained her wrist every time she used it. After an inordinate amount of time wrestling with the tap, she dragged the garden hose around the corner, squeezing the trigger and hitting Wood full force with a blast of freezing cold water. He yelped and ducked, yelling at her to stop.

"Merlin, Granger! Turn that the fuck off!"

She just took a step closer and aimed the spray nozzle at the other side of his body, crouching down a little to angle it up so that the water blasted in his still very rusty face. "I'm not having you traipsing that crap through my house, rust is impossible to get out."

"Learn some cleaning charms then!" He was shielding his face with his arms unsuccessfully, still spitting orange from his mouth and rivulets of water flowing off his face, mixing with and diluting the water pooled on the ground. The puddle in the hole had started to soak into the soil and the bright orange had turned into a muddy brown. Hermione loosed her grip on the trigger, satisfied that he had been sufficiently hosed off.

He let out a sigh of relief, straightening and shaking his head, droplets of water spraying far enough to hit Hermione where she stood a few yards away. He flapped his arms for a few seconds, apparently attempting to shake off some of the liquid from his body, eventually giving up and tugging the grey tee shirt over his head.

Hermione's mouth ran dry. It had been a while since she'd had any male interaction, and the last Muggle she had been with hadn't exactly been built. She made an involuntary noise, and he looked up from his shirt, which he had been wringing out with his apparently very strong hands.

"Take a picture, Granger. It'll last longer."

Her eyes widened and she scuttled off back around the corner of the house, tossing the hose back down on the ground, not bothering to wind it back onto the reel, and turned off the tap. "Come on, Hermione. Get it together; he's your _plumber_ for Merlin's sake."

By the time she had snapped herself out of her unexpectedly lustful thoughts, and gone back to the front yard, Oliver had managed to remove his work pants as well, and was sitting on the front porch waiting for her to return. She stopped dead and whirled around.

"Do you _have_ to get semi naked in my front yard?"

"I thought you didn't want me traipsing muck all through your house."

"Can you not cast a drying charm and put them back on?"

"Not very good at those either."

"What exactly, are you good for then?"

"Why do you think I'm a plumber?" He winked at her and she rolled her eyes.

"I know you're not stupid."

"So don't insinuate that being unable to cast a drying charm means I am then."

She huffed and turned back around, storming back towards the front door and stepping around his large shoulders, which took up most of the width of the steps. "You'll want to wash them first anyway or they'll stain."

Oliver shrugged and stood up. "Not like I can't just go out and buy some new ones anyway."

Hermione opened the front door, holding it open for him and making a sweeping motion for him to enter. "You know how to use a Muggle washing machine?"

He looked at her blankly. "How many times do I have to remind you... I'm a_plumber_."

"Doesn't mean you know what to do with the things once you've plumbed them in."

He stalked off to the kitchen and she trailed after him, pausing in the doorway to watch him throw the clothing into the front loader and crouch down to look in the cupboard next to it for some washing powder. It was a nice view. A _really_nice view.

Nice enough for the flustered and embarrassed feeling from earlier to disappear and be replaced by simple, single minded lust.

"You can use the shower if you want; your hair looks like it's a bit stained." He reached for his dirty blonde hair in panic and she laughed at his vanity. "Don't worry, I have a special shampoo that I developed for this kind of situation, will take out pretty much any colour. I tend to make a mess of myself sometimes."

A look of relief crossed his face, followed by a sheepish grin when he realised she had discovered his well hidden concern for his appearance. She jerked her head towards the stairs. "Come on, I'll get you a towel."

"Alright."

She led the way, darting lightly up the stairs, efficient and sneaky way of moving well ingrained after years of evading the notice of others. She jumped when he spoke, voice coming from mere inches behind her.

"I'm not just a dumb Quidditch player, you know."

She frowned. "I know that."

"I mean, sure, I washed up. But I'm not a plumber out of necessity."

She opened the door to the linen cupboard and pulled out a fluffy turquoise towel, casting a quick warming charm on it and handing it to him. Their fingers lingered on one another's for a moment before she jerked her hands away quickly.

"I started doing it because I wanted something I could easily fix with magic." He hugged the towel against his chest, looking down at his feet and rocking back on his heels. "Turned out I actually found it kind of interesting, decided to do it properly. Make a go of it."

Hermione shut the cupboard door and leaned against it, arms crossed. "Why didn't you just go into Wizarding contracting?"

Oliver removed one arm from the towel and scratched his skull, frowning slightly. "Honestly? I'm fed up with the way the Wizarding World refuses to acknowledge that we need progress. Muggles have their science and innovation, what do we have? Antiquated and backwards policies and prejudices." He looked up at her and smiled. "And to be honest, I just don't fuckin' like anyone very much."

She smiled and laughed. "Wise words from a plumber."

She would look back on that day as the early morning light peered through the gap in her curtains, legs tangled in another's, and wonder exactly how it had happened. In the back of her mind she knew that it wasn't her who had instigated the encounter between them. It wasn't him either, she was pretty sure it was some kind of mystical force that was pushing them into one another's orbits, causing their lips to find one another's in an obscene display of desire and need.

She had been quietly minding her own business, continuing the work she had been doing before he had rudely interrupted with his broken pipe, when he had reappeared in her kitchen, towel draped haphazardly around his hips, intense gaze almost burning her in its ferocity.

She had asked him if he was okay and he didn't reply, just moved towards the kitchen bench, heading directly for the containers that kept her selection of teas safely away from the harmful effects of some of her potions. He pulled the lid off one of them and sniffed, complaining about the lack of tea in bags, and she snorted and gave him a one finger salute over her shoulder, without bothering to look back. His large hand closed around hers, tucking her finger back into her fist, and he laughed.

Then he made a comment about her needing to get out more, stop drinking so much tea and go out for a pint. She indignantly insisted that she often went out for a drink with the neighbours and he snorted, grabbing her by the shoulder and dragging her towards the front door.

The next thing she knew, a light coat was being thrust in her arms, and she was complaining that she wasn't dressed for going out. He said she looked hot and to stop worrying, pointing to the wet pile of clothes in the washing basket by the door and asking for her to dry them quickly. She complied and he tugged them on, not bothering to be modest, and then he was pushing her out the door before she had even managed to pull the jacket around her shoulders.

Two hours later, moderately drunk and giggling uncontrollably, they stumbled back through the door, hands grasping and lips and tongues tangling in between the laughter.

As he pressed her against the wall, blackening both their clothes with the soot, she couldn't help but ask him the question that had been plaguing her since the moment she had opened her door, and found him on her porch.

"Are you really just a plumber?"

He groaned and pressed his forehead against the wall, in between her head and where he had her wrist pinned. "Not this again, I will swear on my grandmother's grave, just a plumber."

"Not here spying on me for the ministry or a gossip rag or the Weasleys?"

He pulled back, eyebrow raised and eyes looking pointedly into hers. She couldn't help but snort at the black mark from the wall that stood out against the pale skin of his forehead, the stripe just below his hairline.

"Don't you trust me?"

"I barely know you."

"What do those famous Granger instincts tell you?" He dipped his head, trailing his lips up her neck and breathing deeply as he reached her ear, tugging on her earlobe lightly with his teeth.

"That you're not a spy, but you're not just a plumber."

He pulled back a little and pressed his lips to hers again, teasing her with his tongue and teeth. "That enough to get you to fuck me?"

He pressed his forehead against hers and she groaned, biting her lip. "You're getting smudges on my forehead."

"That's not answering my question."

She flexed her fingers and he loosed his grip on her wrists, letting her slide her hands down the wall and flattening his own palms against the dirty wallpaper. His body was hovering an inch away from hers, close enough for her to feel the warmth emanating from him, but not quite close enough for her to rub herself against him without being obvious.

She gave up the pretence of playing hard to get and wrapped her arms around his neck, jumping a little and wrapping her legs around his waist. Instinctively, he dropped his hands, gripping her buttocks tightly. She didn't bother to say anything, just latched onto his lips, tugging his head closer to hers, biting and sucking an errant thought crossing her mind as she remembered seeing actors doing similar things on the television when she was a child. A nervous giggle escaped her mouth and Oliver pulled away, frowning.

"What?"

"Oh, nothing. Just regressing to my childhood for a moment."

"That's... disturbing."

She smiled reassuringly. "Don't worry nothing you did. Just a question I remember asking my parents when something a little inappropriate came on the telly." He looked confused for a moment. "You know, the moving pictures that Mug-"

"I know what a telly is."

"Then why the confused face, mister plumber man?"

"Do you get reminded of this every time you're snogging a guy?"

She frowned a little. "I'm not a weirdo, if that's what you're asking."

"No, Granger that isn't what I meant..." He huffed and pressed her hard against the wall again. "I'm just..."

"Look, most of the men I've slept with have been more of a way for me to experiment with my sexuality; I've never really done it with anyone I have feelings for."

He smirked. "Are you saying you have _feelings_ for me, Granger?"

She knocked her head against the wall and rolled her eyes, eventually focussing on the ceiling. "Fuck, no. Wait, I didn't mean that either. Merlin, what I need to say is so _cliché._"

"What did you ask your parents?"

She looked back at him, eyes twinkling, reciting her childhood question in a high pitched voice. "_Mummy, why are they eating each other?_"

He stiffened for a moment, corners of his mouth twitching, but she could see the conflict in his eyes. Eventually he gave in and burst out laughing, head tilting forward and burying in her shoulder as his own shook from the uncontrollable snickering.

"You know that moment where the couple have spent an hour and a half dancing 'round one another and the next thing you know it looks like they're trying to climb inside one another via their mouths?" Her voice was deadpan, and his shoulders shook with more force, no sound coming from him aside from the odd gasp for breath. "I've never really done that, y'know."

He sobered, and straightened up. "So you're saying you've never had sex with any kind of passion?"

"Not really, no."

He tilted his head a little and smiled, leaning in again, this time his nose touching hers, rubbing gently. "So why me?"

"Well... biologically you're a good male specimen; it could be my baser instincts telling me you're a suitable sexual partner."

He nipped at her lips quickly. "So this is how you think about sex? In a scientific manner?"

"I'm just trying to justify why I have this intense urge to stick my tongue down your throat."

His lips hovered over hers for a moment, breath mingling with hers, his hands still gripping her bottom tightly. "You think too much."

She shivered a little, pushing into him in an attempt at gaining control of the position, but he pulled back just far enough for his mouth to be out of reach. She groaned and dug her hands into his hair, glaring at him dangerously. "If you don't take full advantage of me right now, I may come to my senses and change my mind."

He grimaced. "Okay, now you're just making me feel like I'm taking advantage of a drunken woman."

"I'm not that drunk."

"Neither am I."

And his lips were on hers again, this time his tongue teasing and dancing with hers, bodies pressed together tightly, barely able to move enough to tear clothes off.

Her coat went first, he pulled his body away just far enough for her to shrug out of it, and he pulled it roughly from between her back and the wall, throwing it carelessly in the direction of the door. Her thin white tee shirt was next, calloused hands running up her sides and past her breasts, sliding up the full length of her arms and lingering on her palms. She shuddered and bit her lip, and he kissed her again, this time harsh and closed mouthed, occasionally tugging at her lower lip with his teeth himself.

"You're getting all dirty."

"Fuck yeah, I am." Her voice was breathy and low, and she tried to kiss him again, but he pulled away a little, taking the full weight of her with his arms and moving towards the stairs.

"No, I mean all the soot."

She chuckled and buried her face in his shoulder. "Oh yeah, that."

"First one on the left, right?" She stopped biting his shoulder for a moment to mutter an affirmative answer, and a moment later she was pressed up against hard wood, grinding herself into his stomach as he fumbled with the door handle in his haste.

No longer supported on one side, she allowed herself to slide down until she was standing on her own two feet once again and shoved open the door herself as she grabbed him by the collar and pulled him inside. She didn't bother to close the door, and moved her hands from the top of his tee shirt to the bottom, pulling at the edge until she had managed to work it up his torso and eventually over his head.

His hands were at her waist, working on the buttons of her jeans but she slapped his hands away, heading for the bed. "Wait, boots." She sat heavily on the bright white duvet and leaned over; tugging at the laces of her heavy brown work boots that covered the ankles of her ripped and faded jeans. She could feel him standing there, staring at her and she looked up. "What? Never seen a girl take of her shoes before?"

"What's up with the heavy duty footwear, anyway?"

She flopped back on the bed and toed off the shoes, they clonked loudly on the floorboards as they hit, masking part of the groan she let out. "What's up with the twenty fucking questions? Are we doing this, or not?"

He picked up the boots, moving them next to the night stand, and sat down next to her, knee touching hers. She remained laying down with her legs dangling over the side of the bed, not moving but eyes fixed on his back.

"I've charmed them to be impervious to pretty much every dangerous compound that I may spill on myself, okay? Now quit with the questions and take off your trousers."

He turned, hand leaning on the bed and supporting his torso as he moved over her, leaning down and hovering just above her, nose to nose. "You're different than I remember. But still the same. The same but different, does that make any sense?"

"To borrow your own words, _shit happens, people grow_."

"I can't imagine the Hermione I knew in Hogwarts screwing her plumber."

She frowned and tried to squirm away from him, but he had her trapped, body now pressing down on hers. "That Hermione was naïve, and far too idealistic. She grew up... and you're about to talk your way right out of my bed if you don't shut the hell up."

Oliver sighed and lowered his head, mashing his head into the duvet. Despite the change in mood in the room, Hermione found herself giggling, thinking of the black soot that was still smeared across both their foreheads.

"Are you laughing at me?" His voice was muffled from the downy bed cover and she laughed harder, struggling to catch her breath under his weight. "You are, aren't you? You're laughing at me."

"Honestly, can we do this talking thing another day? We're not very good at it."

He raised his head and caught her eye out of the corner of his. "Yeah, fine."

"Good, now take off your trousers."

He smirked and pushed himself back down her body, finishing the job he had started with her buttons and tugging her tight jeans over her hips and bottom as she raised her lower half off of the bed a little. He pulled them off roughly, taking her socks with them and throwing the whole lump of cloth carelessly across the room, a complete contrast to his careful treatment of her boots.

She suddenly felt very exposed, his eyes tracing her body, clad only in mismatched underwear, plain black knickers and a light blue bra that didn't contain her breasts very well when laying down. She saw the moment he realised a nipple was peeking out of one of the firm cups, and she felt a rush of satisfaction that overtook the slight feeling of unease.

His own jeans were shucked quickly and then he was over her again, this time his lips latched onto the pink nipple that he had seemed so pleased to see a moment earlier. She whimpered, not quite expecting him to be so forward in his approach, and tugged on his hair, urging him to move up her body and back to her mouth. He ignored her, instead pulling her hands away from his head and forcing them to either side of hers, pinning her wrists to the bed like he had the wall when they had first arrived back at the house.

He had sucked her whole nipple into his mouth by that stage, flicking at it with his tongue and scraping the edges lightly with his teeth, and she bit down hard on her bottom lip, arching back into the mattress and holding in the loud groan that threatened to escape.

He eventually released the nipple with a soft _pop_ and trailed his mouth down her body, between her breasts and over her stomach, stopping for a moment at her belly button on his way to her knickers. His hands left a teasing, tickling path as they slid down the soft skin of her arms and sides, and she shivered, aching for him to reach his destination.

She lifted her hips in anticipation her underwear being removed, but instead he pushed his hand against her hip, forcing her back down on the bed, and pulled the underwear aside with his other hand. Seconds later his fingers were inside her, and she let out a slightly high pitched shout, the unexpected intrusion both wonderful and surprising.

"Fuck, give me some warning, will you?"

"Granger, you're fucking soaking your knickers, I don't think you would have needed it." He curled his fingers a little and she moaned loudly, shoulders pressing into the bed and hips trying their best to lift off as well, hindered by the pressure of his free hand. His chin had been rested against her pelvis, but now he moved down to meet his hand, latching onto her clit and sucking hard. She shuddered, teetering on the edge of something that she wasn't quite ready for, whimpering her approval, legs desperately attempting to find purchase on his back but failing miserably as he scraped his teeth across the sensitive area.

"Oooh, shit you really have to stop that."

He looked up at her, tongue still teasing her, and raised an eyebrow. "Why?"

"Because I can't do the multiple thing. I come once, and then I'm done."

"So let's change that."

"Trust me, it won't work. I just can't do it."

He nodded. "Mmmkay. Maybe next time." She sighed and looked at him pointedly. "Okay, okay, only once. So you want top or bottom this time?"

"Bottom. But for Merlin's sake, do something creative."

"I love it how you've just kind of accepted this is going to happen again."

"I told you earlier, there's something different about you. Probably just your body, though."

He lifted one of her knees up and placed it over his shoulder, pushing her across the bed a little bit to make enough room for his own legs. "I am surprisingly okay with that."

Her leg was extended as far as she could manage, not being particularly flexible, and the angle made for a delicious friction as he pressed himself inside her, her hand guiding him until his pelvis was rested firmly against hers. She rotated her hips and flexed her shoulders, and he shoved a little harder, causing her to twitch violently as the tip of his cock touched her cervix.

"Shit, sorry."

"'S'okay, Try again after a few minutes and I'll be begging for it." He grinned and pulled out, lingering at her entrance for a few moments before pulling out entirely. She moaned in protest. "You're a fucking tease, aren't you?"

"Maybe."

And then his fingers were back in her again, rubbing that spot inside her until she was begging for him to finish it, whimpering and writhing beneath him, leg still propped on his shoulder.

He pulled out just as she began to lose control, replacing his hand immediately with his hips, this time entering her swiftly and to the hilt in one stroke. Her back arched, and pressed her cheek into the duvet, biting down on her own arm.

He taunted her for longer than she cared to remember, taking her right to the edge before changing their position slightly, or replacing his body with his mouth, teasing her and playing her until she had reached breaking point, begging for him to make her come.

When it did happen, it was unexpected for both of them, a sudden tensing and seizure of muscles as both her legs were slung over his shoulders, her own hand buried in her crotch circling her clit. As her legs clenched around his neck, almost dangerous in the pressure they exerted, her mouth opened in a soundless gasp, eventually expelling a low hiss as she twitched and shuddered, the last vestiges of her climax lingering for a few moments.

He pulled out of her swiftly and buried his face in the crook of her neck, cock pressed against her stomach as his own orgasm washed over him, hot and sticky against her stomach and breasts. Her legs had dropped back down to the bed, and he rolled away from her, groaning as he flopped back down next to her.

"Fuck." His voice was hoarse and he coughed gently.

"Yeah." She was staring at the ceiling blankly, mouth still open slightly. Their breathing was the only real sound in the room.

"I hope you don't mind..."

She chuckled and trailed a finger through the mess on her torso, licking it off her finger. "I definitely do _not _mind." She turned her head, meeting his steady gaze. He grinned and bit his tongue for a moment before continuing.

"I can see why you only go once."

She shoved him hard in the shoulder and rolled away from him, reaching into her bedside table for a tissue to wipe away the mess he had made.

"I can go more than once, you know."

She laughed, swiping half heartedly at her breasts. "Really? I would rather like to test out this claim at some point in time."

He propped himself up on his elbow, leaning over and grabbing another few tissues, helping her to clean her up. She watched him as he carefully ran his hands up her body in long strokes, wiping away all the evidence of his enthusiasm. When he was done he sat up, straddling her and leaning over to kiss her gently on the corner of her mouth.

"How does tomorrow morning sound?"

_End._


End file.
